Warmer nights
by Kokorocala
Summary: What does the man remember? As the cold night stretches over the Red Mercenaries, Heavy has the chance to relive his memories in his freezing dreams. He sees fire.
The mountain's cold brushed over the base as the Mercenaries tried to work and rest after their cold match. Most of them, after dark, were looking for ways to warm themselves. Pyro made a fire in the middle of the old and damp concrete floor, while the others tried to stay as close to it as possible.

They tried to shine and clean their weapons and clothes, but it was too cold, all they could do was just look for more dry scrap wood, and hope they'd survive the night's bitterness.

They shivered and shook, the wind blowing in from the broken windows they tried to board up, and through the little cracks in the flimsy painted wood.

The company had left them to their devices for the night, for supplies and food would only arrive tomorrow afternoon. They'd be stuck freezing until then.

Only one that seemed unaffected, or at least, not freezing to death, was Heavy. He sat on a large crate in the corner, away from the others. He preferred to watch over them on cold nights like these. He was much more caring than he liked to let on.

As he drifted down into a slumber, false warmth spread over his face, as if hands cupped it gently. He closed his eyes softly, the others still chilled to the bone.

The warmth of the fire grew warmer, and brighter. He opened his dreary eyes to a warm hearth. He felt... smaller.

His hands were softer, and silky. pink palms looked at him. He saw blurred figures dancing and playing. Three of them, all in nightgowns. He sat upon a strong knee. He looked back, and up. A simple shirt and waistcoat, a pipe, and a beard, they all looked at a small novel on the arm of the big chair. How he remembered that special smell. The big hand put down the book, and held his little fingers warmly as he was lifted off the knee, and patted to bed that he shared with those happy little blurs. They all said a muffled goodnight, and all got a kiss on the forehead from soft and motherly lips.

He closed his eyes again.

He heard a mumble, and maybe two, maybe three again, and a fourth. It was snow. His hands were bloody now. The snow cut into his bare skin, and he was running too fast. He heard screaming, and felt a hotter, harsher warmth. It crackled and broke loudly behind him, as ember flew past his ears, and gunshots rang out. He saw no big, fatherly hands. He felt no silky lips on his forehead. Just the freezing blood that was not his, and the blaze that scratched at his back. Those four other figures ran. One was missing. And would never be seen again. He ran with hatred carrying each step.

"Misha!" one of the voices screamed. "Misha, Misha, Misha!" They yelled again. He just kept holding hands and carrying those soft little hands, and how cold they were, it haunted him. He shook his head and they carried themselves over an icy river, and miles of snow. They rested in a shack that night. He rested his head, and closed his eyes again. The warmth grew over his eyes again.

He opened them. To see another hearth. one he had built himself. A breakfast, a table he made himself, and those figures talking and cleaning up. He looked at a paper. In his language, the letter wrote,"Hello and good day, sir. We at TF industries would like to invite you for a job opportunity to protect and serve our purpose. We provide hefty salaries. Please do not reply, but arrive at these coordinates:- at ten'o'clock, Monday morning." The memories had failed to provide him the numbers, but he closed his eyes again. He was back.

The fire flickered off the walls, and the mercenaries had fallen asleep, leaning onto each other without knowledge. Heavy was relieved. But, he was depraved. He could almost feel those hands. His father's hands. How they hugged him close at times, how he loved them. Those figures, his sisters, his mother, all of them blurred by the cold of the night on his blood. He walked over to the fire, and stoked it once more.

He pulled the loose tarp that kept most of the team warm over them again, and sat on the other side. He looked at the embers fading. Sunlight would come soon, he knew, and he wouldn't have to look at the same fire.

Not again.


End file.
